Blackberries
by Shakespeare's Muse
Summary: But he says not to worry – nobody cares if your lips are pale. And you know he’s trying to be nice and failing miserably, and so you smile at him and carry on with your herbology homework" (RonHermione -- odd little fic done in the 'you' style)


**Blackberries**

**A/N:_ I wrote this in the 'you' style, something that I'm very fond of, although I don't think I've ever posted a fic like that. Oh well, that's about to change, hehe. Enjoy, all you R/Hr fans!_**

*

So you change into the long black uniform, with its billowing sleeves and 'new' smell, and you walk up and down the train looking for a _toad_ of all things, but it's all one long joke as far as you're concerned. And as you wonder the carriages you find **them** sitting there, mountains of sweets in front of them and some discarded corned-beef sandwiches off to the side. And you have no idea why you remember the sandwiches, but you do and in a way you're glad, although you don't know why when it comes to that either.

But you know everything else so that's okay; like the fact that _that boy_ with the red hair really _is_ very annoying, because you only told him about the dirt on his nose to be polite.

And when it comes down to it, you know the second that you enter that castle that you are _just like every other girl in that place. All you really want is friends; people who can like you and love you and be with you when the important things happen, like your first A+ and your first…well, whatever thing is more important than an A+ (although you really can't imagine what it might be)._

But things never turn out the way you want them to -- perhaps it was fated from the start. You sit there in class and you listen and you write and you answer lots and lots of questions, and the professors obviously like you; so why don't the other kids? You're clever – you can do every spell in your text books, and you don't understand why it isn't enough. And the worst thing is _that boy_. And then you overhear him talking about you and you suddenly know where everything went wrong.

And you're crying and crying and crying, and you're skipping class too; your brain tells you that you shouldn't be, but the crumpled up little organ inside your chest – the heart, they call it – is telling you to carry on crying, because to be honest, you need too. You haven't cried since you fell over and grazed your knee in primary school, and a nasty older boy told you you were pathetic – you hate older boys. And you know you're being pathetic now, but you can't help it – _that boy's words wounded you, and now he's spoilt your love of __words and everything associated with them._

And then something happens and you're not quite sure what because it all happened so fast, but you know that there was a troll, and that **they** were there, and that they saved your life – those boys who hate corned-beef sandwiches – and you thought they hated you too. And then you suddenly realise that no, they don't hate you, because you're friends. And you know that they were never what you thought you'd get – you thought you'd get a pretty little thing who was always the one the boys wanted, and you were just her sidekick; the one that boy's turned to if they needed to copy your notes or ask you about the homework – but with these two it's different, because they like you for you, and for the straggly brown hair that puffs out in all the wrong places, and your pale lips that never really smile enough.

But _he says not to worry – nobody cares if your lips are pale. And you know he's trying to be nice and failing miserably, and so you smile at him and carry on with your herbology homework._

And so things happen and things change, and before you know it you're fourteen and you've known them for longer than you ever thought you would; you're growing up with them, and they're growing up with you too – well, except for _that boy_, who always seems to be stuck at the age of eleven, no matter how much he matures physically. Because it doesn't matters if he's taller than you, or if he really is older than you are, because you know he's not like you; you grew up quickly – too quickly (although you would never say you did, because that just wouldn't be right, would it?).

And you get angry because he talks about girls as if they don't really matter, and you know it's the last straw when he insults a girl behind her back – because right then you can see something of yourself in her, in the way he carelessly remarks about her – and it makes you angry because the last time that happened _you ended up in the girl's toilets crying all afternoon. And so you snap at him and stalk off to the library where you end up feeling worse, because there's something nagging you at the back of your mind; but then that older boy walks over, and you forget about him for a while – because older boys are better, and you like older boys. And conveniently you forget that __that boy is older than you are – but it doesn't matter. Because he only insults girls like you anyway._

And then the older boy asks you to the ball – almost like a fairytale (although you never did believe in that rubbish) – and when _that boy_ finds out he seems to take it as a personal insult, and you ending up screaming at him from across the room, your hair coming out from it's neat bun and beginning to frizz once again. And you tell him you hate him for it, and you know really that it's a lie, because the only reason you hate him is because he _didn't ask you first. It makes you angry, because deep down you know you don't just want to be another girl he taunts behind her back, even thought you know he wouldn't do that. But the fear's there anyway and you grasp onto it, because fear's the only stable thing in this world these days._

And then the times flies again, and now you're sixteen, and so many things have happened you can't even count it all on both hands; but you can rely on _that boy_ for more hands to count on until there really is nothing left to count on at all. But then, you know you can_ count on _**him**. But the denial's getting really bad now – you're about to burst because you want him to be there, to be with you and holding you and—

But you can't say what you want to say, because every single carefully built wall of yours will come crashing down if you do, and you can't let that happen, because you're strong really. They think you are, and **he** does too. _That boy. So you've got to be strong, for them as well as yourself, because what are they without you, and – most importantly – what are you without them?_

You think the answer's nothing, but he tells you that you're wrong, and then he says that nobody cares if your lips are pale, _because they're not at all_, he says. _They're coral pink and stained glass pink and every other pink he can think of_.

And you know he's trying to be nice and succeeding brilliantly, and so you just smile at him and carry on looking at wedding dresses in a magazine.

And so its summer time, and you sit in the orchard behind his garden, lying on your backs and staring up at the bright summer sky though the branches, but you can't really see much because of the green leaves – the vibrant, lively green leaves. But you don't mind, because the light looks so pretty shining through them, and for once you're not thinking about how they work and what they do, you're just thinking that they look pretty.

And you say to him that it looks pretty and he tells you that _you are too_, and for a moment you're silent, listening to the sound of birds in the trees. And then you sit up, suddenly very aware of just how close you are, and then he sits up too, and you're both just looking at each other, and you're wondering how his eyes ever got to be so bright. And then all of a sudden you realise that you're kissing him, and you wonder briefly just how it happened, because you don't really remember – but for once in your life you don't care how it works and what you do, because you know that you can say what you want now without your walls crashing down around, and then with a second of realisation – no, not even a second; a much, much shorter time that that – you know that it's happening already.

Because he's kissing you.

And you recognize suddenly that he tastes like blackberries, and you stop for a moment and ask him why, and as soon as the words leave your mouth you know it was a stupid thing to say. But he just laughs and holds up a little basket that is sat beside him, and it's filled up to the wicker brim with blackberries. He – _that boy – says that he was _saving them for you_, and you know that he's been eating them here and there, but you don't care because if he hadn't he wouldn't have tasted like blackberries._

_"Better than corned-beef", you mutter to yourself, and he looks at you for a moment with his head tilted to one side and his blue eyes sparkling, and he reaches out for your hand and gives you a blackberry.****_

You eat the little fruit, with its juice dripping off your chin and your fingers staining purple, and now the sun's going down and it's getting colder, and you really should be inside by now, but now that you're with **him** you _really don't care_.

And he kisses you again and tells you that you taste like blackberries too, and you laugh and ask him what colour your lips are now, because judging by the stains on your fingers they are no longer coral pink or stained glass pink or any other pink you can think of. And he laughs once more, and then puts the basket in between you, and you eat the little berries together. Because you can. And you are.

And you know that now you'll always remember the taste of blackberry juice on his lips, and you'll no longer think of your own as pale, because they're _coral pink and stained glass pink and all the other pinks you can think of_.

*


End file.
